Before the Night Is Over
by M C Pehrson
Summary: Story #46 Now a free man, Spock deals with problems back home in San Francisco-Kirk foremost among them. While Spock's attempt to help Jim leaves their friendship in ruins, Sarek breaks his latest silence with an interesting proposition.
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1**

"I'm leaving," T'Beth said abruptly.

Jim Kirk took a leisurely swallow of brandy and pivoted his wheelchair toward the sofa where Spock's dark-haired daughter was seated. _Leaving his apartment? So what?_ Now that her father was out of prison, she spent more and more of her time over there, but of course Spock seldom managed to come _here_. Kirk had hardly set eyes on the damned Vulcan—his so-called friend—since the day Spock arrived back on Earth. And when he did visit, they argued.

T'Beth sat staring at him, not moving a muscle.

"What's the problem?" he snapped. "You need my permission? Daddy's waiting. Go on, get out!"

Pain clouded her hazel eyes. "No, Jim. You don't understand. I'm leaving for Sydok."

For a moment Kirk felt as if the paralysis in his lower limbs was creeping over his entire body, and forced himself to take slow, even breaths. _What's wrong with me?_ _This is good news. Wonderful news. The whole place to myself again…and it's about time._

Flexing the numbness from his hands, he poured himself another drink from the bottle resting in his lap.

"Well, aren't you going to say anything?" T'Beth asked him.

He shrugged and held the glass up in a sarcastic toast. "Warp speed." As he swallowed the liquor, it was all he could do to get it past the knot in his throat.

T'Beth got up and walked over to him, tears shimmering. "My leave's running out. My flight is booked day after tomorrow. Jim…" Her voice caught. "Jim, I'd really like to see you up and walking before I go."

Angry, Kirk pivoted his chair and wheeled down the hallway, into his bedroom. He shut the door—slammed it hard—then backed his wheelchair against it and listened to the sound of his heart pounding.

There were footsteps in the hall. T'Beth's voice came to him through the door, gently pleading. "I don't want to leave you like this. Aaron helped my father and he can help you, too. Be reasonable, Jim. Go to him…"

To the one and only Commander Aaron Pascal? He was all T'Beth seemed to talk about anymore. Kirk had grown to hate the very sound of his name. Consumed by jealousy, he shouted, "Just go to hell!"

oooo

It was precisely a month since Spock's release from prison. The day had slipped by quietly, all but unnoticed in a weekend of activities—and conflict—under the warm New Zealand sun. Simon's unrelenting moodiness had made life difficult for everyone.

Now as Spock piloted his family home from the travel port, he was acutely aware of the boy's shoe digging into the back of his seat. It was dark and the windshield was spattered with drizzle when the skimmer touched down. Simon bolted straight to the front door and rushed into the house without helping unload. Although Lauren sighed loudly, Spock made no effort to stop the boy; just now a little distance would do them both good. He took his time unfastening the sleepy twins from their seats, then helped his wife carry them in. Teresa and James had worn themselves out in New Zealand's nature parks. At this young age they were so easy to please, their needs and emotions so uncomplicated.

Spock enjoyed the feeling of Teresa's arms around his neck as he took her upstairs to the bedroom she shared with her brother. There was no longer any need to watch each step closely. His strides were strong and steady, his legs totally free of the painful disorder that had made him limp for so long. Aaron Pasco's Transmigrator had eliminated every trace of neurological damage. There was already some talk that Aaron would be nominated for the Nobel Prize in medicine, and Spock could think of no one more deserving than his young friend.

Leaving Lauren with the children, he went downstairs to check the phone and discovered a message from Vulcan. He brought up the transmission and found Sarek's brother speaking to him from the screen. Startled, Spock studied Sparn's image as his uncle delivered a brief invitation. The screen had gone blank when he heard Lauren on the stairs and called out to her. She walked over and he watched her anger flare as he replayed the surprising com.

"'A valuable position in a prospering business specializing in the relocation of undesirable life forms'!" Fuming, she said, "I can't believe it! Is he actually offering you a job as an exterminator?"

Spock raised an eyebrow. "Vulcans are not in the habit of exterminating any creature they find inconvenient…but that is hardly the salient point of this communication. Think, Lauren. While my uncle's intentions are no doubt questionable, he has just spoken to me directly—and by name. Sparn has acknowledged my existence and extended an invitation to participate in Vulcan's business affairs. It can only mean that the interdict against me has been lifted."

Lauren's mouth dropped open. "You're not exiled anymore? But wouldn't there have been some word? Some kind of official notification from Vulcan's High Council?"

"I am unsure," Spock admitted. He was turning back to the screen when a tone signaled an incoming message—this time from his mother. The case had been re-evaluated at her demand, since Sarek was "apparently too busy to concern himself with the matter". The council had removed its edict of banishment.

Spock sat back in the chair and took a moment to absorb the news. He had not expected this—or surely, not so soon. Sarek was not the only Vulcan who found it difficult to admit an error. The High Council seldom reversed a ruling, but in this case they may have found a quiet retraction preferable to dealing with his mother when her temper was up.

It felt as if a great weight had been lifted from him…yet this turn of events also brought a twinge of regret.

He remained so quiet that Lauren leaned over and asked, "Are you thinking of Sarek?"

"No," Spock said reflectively. Perhaps it was a foolish complaint, but he voiced it. "I am thinking of the property you sold for me on Vulcan. Of course, we thought then that I would be imprisoned for twenty years or longer…and credits were in short supply."

Lauren's lips parted. An odd look came over her face and Spock was reminded of their daughter Teresa when she was caught in some naughty deed.

Quickly he said, "Do not think that I blame you. After all, you were only following my instructions. The decision was mine to make."

Despite the reassurance, Lauren seemed to grow even more distressed. All at once she began to stammer, "I…I'm afraid I have a confession to make."

"Oh?" Spock said, preparing himself for an unpleasant disclosure.

In a small voice she said, "I never sold your Vulcan property."

Perplexed, he rose slowly to his feet. "But how can that be? I distinctly told you…"

"You told me to sell the property if I needed more income. Well, I got by without it…and we're still getting by, aren't we?"

Yes, of course they were "getting by", now. Upon Spock's release from Romar's prison colony, Starfleet had pensioned him off with such a sizeable deposit of back pay that he would not have to rush into employment. But life had been a struggle for Lauren while he was in prison, and for a time they had both been incarcerated.

Spock searched his wife's face. "I have always honored your desire to handle our routine household finances. You have a marked aptitude for such management…" He almost dreaded to add, "But please do not tell me that you went against my wishes and accepted money from your mother…or from mine."

Lauren's mouth set in a stubborn line. "Don't look at me that way. When I ran off with you to find T'Naisa, I _had_ to turn everything over to Mother. Someone had to keep up with the bills while we were gone. And…" Her eyes dropped, her bravado faltered. "And she paid them, alright. She up and paid off our entire mortgage!" In a very subdued voice she added, "I'm surprised you haven't seen it in my thoughts when we…"

Yes. In their most intimate moments there was always some mental mingling. Spock thought over the troubling situation and broke his silence to say, "At such times your mind is not occupied with finances. But of course we will repay her. Why didn't you tell me this at once? She must think I am most ungrateful never to have thanked her."

"I was afraid to tell you," she admitted, eyes downcast.

Spock gently tipped her chin upward until she met his gaze. "Afraid?"

Just then there was a sound out on the porch. The front door squeaked as it swung open. Spock and Lauren moved apart with the tacit understanding that they would continue their conversation later.

T'Beth came around the corner and found them. "Good," she said with obvious relief. "I was hoping you were home."

Spock read the unhappiness on his daughter's face. No doubt she had suffered more abuse at Kirk's hands, and the thought grieved him. He was glad T'Beth was returning to her life on Sydok, where she would be worlds away from the trouble that was about to descend on the former captain.

At her request, she brought out her Chinese chess board and they spent a quiet hour immersed in the strategies they had honed with paper game pieces on Donari. More than once he found her eyes fixed on him, her lips parted as if she was about to speak. But the moment she had his attention, her eyes would drop and she would shift in her seat like a nervous child.

Once, with her eyes on the board, she softly said, "I _have_ to go. I have commitments and responsibilities…"

Spock assured her that he both understood and approved her decision, all the while wondering about the true nature of her commitments. There had been rumors—strange, outlandish tales of a royal romance and the birth of a female child.

After some consideration he moved a cannon and glanced up at his daughter. It could be that there was some kernel of truth in the rumors, but he could not believe that T'Beth would hide a child from him. He no longer had access to Starfleet records, but Lauren had run a check that proved negative. Spock had considered scanning Sydok's bank of vital statistics, but decided to drop the matter out of respect for T'Beth's privacy. Or so he told himself.

Spock won the match. As they were returning the game pieces to their case, T'Beth paused tearfully and asked, "You _will_ go and see Jim, won't you? After I'm gone?"

"Of course," Spock assured her. "In fact, I have plans for our Mr. Kirk on the very day that you leave."

oooo

Spock bid his daughter farewell at the spaceport and went directly to Kirk's apartment. This particular visit had been weeks in the planning. There had been preparations to be made, many important phone calls and appointments, as well as a brief trip to Iowa where Jim's cousin still operated the family farm. But at long last everything was in place.

At the apartment door he announced himself through a speaker and waited. There was a lengthy delay before Kirk finally released the lock that his paranoia demanded. Spock entered the unlit rooms and found Kirk hunched in his wheelchair by the windows, gazing out at the raw December day.

Spock stopped where he was and waited for Kirk to greet him, but his former captain did nothing to acknowledge his presence.

Finally Spock broke the silence and said, "T'Beth has departed for Sydok."

Kirk did not bother to look his way as he spoke in a derisive tone, "You came over just to tell me that?"

Spock experienced an all-too-human stirring of anger and swiftly brought himself under control. "No. I have come to tell you that I am glad she is gone, because now you will no longer be able to hurt her. The ingratitude you have shown T'Beth is despicable."

Kirk swung around like a cornered animal and glared at him. "I never the hell asked her to come here! And I never asked you, either!" His voice took on a sharp edge of mockery. "My, how Vulcan-young you look…and how strong with those legs of yours all fixed."

Though Spock had fully expected hostility, he had not quite anticipated this. "Jim…what has become of you?"

Kirk's jaw tightened. "You think you're so damned superior. Just leave me alone."

Spock almost wished that were possible, that he could simply turn and walk away from this bitter, abrasive man as if they were nothing more than strangers. But he could not. He had come here with one purpose in mind—one last painful duty to his captain and friend—and he would not leave until he had performed it.

Steeling himself, he said, "When I was at the Luna penitentiary a new prisoner arrived, little more than a boy. He was assigned to a cell directly across from mine. Many a night I would hear him whimpering in pain as his three cellmates did as they pleased with him. There was no doubt of what was happening. I am Vulcan. Even though the cellblock was dark, I could see clearly enough…" At this point Spock hesitated. It was not easy for him to speak of those times, and Kirk's unreceptive attitude made the telling even more difficult. "Finally, I went to the warden. Cho said that the boy would have filed his own complaint if he were in any difficulty. The warden suggested that I had an ulterior motive—that perhaps I would like the boy transferred to my own cell."

Kirk broke his silence with sarcasm. "Does this sordid little tale of yours have a point?"

That was all it was to him, Spock realized—just a "sordid little tale". He could not bring himself to explain why he had felt such a responsibility toward the helpless boy, nor how the boy had later run out through an airlock and permanently ended his misery.

"I can see that I am boring you, so I will move on to the question that my story is meant to pose. Namely, what would you have done in my place? Could you have watched someone come to harm and done nothing? Or would you have tried everything in your power to save him?"

Light dawned in Kirk's bloodshot eyes and he broke into a bitter smile. "You're telling me that I'm like that boy in the cell—is that it? And who is screwing _me_ over?"

"In your case," Spock replied, "the harm is entirely self-inflicted."

Kirk laughed—a hollow, humorless sound. "Not much of an allegory, Spock. In case you haven't figured it out, I can't screw _anyone_. Better just stick to your logic."

Spock considered. "Logic. Yes, logic certainly has its place. But something beyond logic has brought me here today and is leading me to offer you a choice."

Kirk's smile faded. "A choice? What choice?"

Spock saw no reason to delay the matter any further. Reaching into his coat pocket, he drew out a thick envelope and handed it to Kirk.

Eyeing it, Kirk said, "What the hell is this? Your prison memoirs?"

Ignoring the distasteful remark, Spock gathered his resolve and said, "You are hereby served to appear for a medical examination ordered by the court to determine your competency and admit you to rehabilitative care. In that envelope you will also find depositions upon which this action is based." And he added, "Of course, there will be no need for the examination if you choose to undergo treatment voluntarily."

With trembling hands Kirk tore open the envelope. His face flushed as he scanned the thick sheaf of papers, reading names of doctors, relatives, and friends—Spock among them. Then his face contorted with rage and he hurled them to the floor. "Why, you back-stabbing son-of-a bitch!"

Spock found it increasingly difficult to speak, but he was not yet finished. "Judging by your earlier remark…you are aware that I have been healed by Commander Pascal's Cell Transmigrator…yet you refuse the same treatment for yourself. That is not rational. Your disability has become a convenient shield that you hide behind…and blame for your personal failure. You use it as an excuse to indulge in drunkenness…and self-pity…" He broke off, fully expecting his former captain to explode in rage. But Kirk's trembling had almost subsided. His anger seemed to have sunk to a deeper, colder plane. His eyes never left Spock's face as he slowly backed his wheelchair to the table where he kept his liquor.

"There was a time," Spock said, "when I held you in highest regard. But now when I look at you…I see a dissipated body and an unbalanced mind. You are sick, Jim."

"Don't call me Jim!" Kirk said through his teeth. "Don't… _ever…_ call me that again!" Grasping a decanter of brandy, he held it up for Spock to see. "This is all the treatment I need…but you're right about one thing. One of us _is_ sick-minded, and it's not me. When I think about how I stood up for you in court…!"

"I, too, remember that day," Spock said.

"Do you? Not half as well, I wager, as the day you found out that I'd stepped over the line with your daughter. That's what this is all about, isn't it? _T'Beth_. So now it's payback time. And all along I've been cursing Starfleet for what they did to you. Well, maybe they weren't far wrong, after all!"

Yet again Spock reminded himself that Kirk did not realize what he was saying, could not possibly understand the power his insults held over this particular halfling. Levelly he said, "Your attitude toward me is irrelevant. All that matters is the decision I have placed before you. How will you respond?"

Something murderous stirred in the human's eyes, and his fingers clenched into fists. "Come here," he said curtly. "Come over here—or are you afraid?"

Spock remained as he was. "No, I am not afraid. But if you really feel that you must strike me, you will have to stand up to do it."

Kirk's eyes flamed. "Then get out, you calculating, satanic bastard! Get the hell out of my sight, do you hear me?"

Somehow Spock met his fury with an outward show of calm. "As you wish. But like it or not, your competency _will_ be evaluated."

oooo

Kirk sat behind the locked door of his bedroom and tried to make sense out of what was happening to him. His hands shook. His head throbbed viciously. His brain felt fuzzy from too much alcohol.

This was not the first time he had been angry at Spock, but all those petty flashes of temper paled in comparison to the bitter rage he was experiencing now. _Incompetent!_ The word twisted like a knife. How many people had the traitorous Vulcan paid off to get those depositions? What kind of lies had he been telling everyone?

Frustrated, he reached out to grab a lone water glass that had somehow escaped his rampage—then stopped himself. _Come on, Jim. You know how to think your way out of tight situations. You've done it before, you can do it again._ Only this time, Spock was not at his side helping. This time, Spock was the enemy _._

Kirk drew in a deep breath. His eyes darted around the bedroom, as if the solution might be lying around somewhere in the mess he had created. Think. _Think!_

The legal system was being rigged against him. They were going to strip him of his rights. In a matter of days he would find himself in detox or end up as some squirming test subject for Aaron Pascal's medical experiments. _All because of Spock._

Kirk's desperate gaze lit on the medicine caddy beside his bed. There, tucked away in a drawer was something that would even the score. It took a moment to maneuver his wheelchair over to it. Reaching deep into the drawer, he pulled out the little phaser and cradled it in his hand. Yes, he could certainly take care of Spock with this—one swift, fatal beam of energy and the Vulcan would be nothing more than a bad memory.

An image of Spock's younger children rose up in his mind. Simon, Teresa, and little James. They would never even know what happened to their father. They would wonder. They would worry. They would cry.

Abruptly he shoved the phaser back into the drawer and rubbed his hands over his face. _Kill Spock?_ What was he thinking? And even if he dared do it, the phaser blast would set off every security alarm in the building.

No. He would have to come up with something else.

oooo

James Kirk was missing, and to Spock the night seemed interminable. It had been hours since he first consulted with the police, but there was still no word of Kirk's whereabouts. And so, he waited…

Shortly after 3:00 a.m. he left Lauren curled up on Jim's sofa, dozing. His restlessness carried him through the quiet halls of the high-rise apartment complex, all the way to ground level. There, in the shelter of the main entryway, he stood breathing the cold damp air while rain pounded the nearby pavement. Overhead, the thick layer of clouds blocked every star, but in his mind's eye he saw each and every one of them—countless reminders of his voyages with Captain Kirk aboard the Enterprise. An unlikely pairing, that brash young captain and the wary, insecure halfling who had scarcely know how to relate to him, or to any other human. Yet there among the stars, Spock had ultimately given his life for him, acknowledging their bond of friendship with his last breath. 

Spock drew his coat tight against the storm's chill and gazed out at the rain. An hour had passed when the entry door opened behind him and Lauren appeared at his side. Her hand found his, and comforted by her touch, he began to voice the deeply personal concerns that had been plaguing him all night. "It would seem that I have driven him to take some desperate measure. He must feel as if everyone has abandoned him, and in his state of mind there is no telling what he might have done. It troubles me that he left his wheelchair behind…as if he had no further use for it. Is he dead? Would I sense it?"

Lauren glanced up at him and he saw his own deepest worry reflected in her eyes. Extending her free hand, she drew back her fingers. There on her palm lay a man's ring—the very signet ring Spock gave Kirk as a gift one memorable Christmas aboard the Enterprise.

"I…found it in his trash," she said.

All at once he felt his control slipping. He should have been able to suppress the sorrow using Vulcan techniques, as he had so many times this past year. Perhaps, if Lauren had not been there. But in the stillness of the night she drew him close, and as she rested her head on his shoulder, he broke down and wept.

oooo

Kirk felt himself starting to awaken and instinctively shrank back toward the sweet, painless oblivion of sleep. The effort only served to rouse him all the more. He groaned as hard, sober reality broke into his consciousness, assaulting him with memories. A single image caught and froze in his mind—the face of betrayal—a stony, unfeeling Vulcan face.

Anger hit him like a dash of scalding water, and his eyes snapped open. Morning light slanted through dusty window blinds. The room was small and cluttered, with the rustic flavor of a bachelor's mountain cabin. Gradually he sorted through the tangle of confusion and began to relax.

So he had outwitted Spock, after all.

Kirk caught a whiff of fresh-brewed coffee. Shoving back the covers, he raised his arms and enjoyed a slow stretch in the chilly air. No central heating system here. Old Lem Howard warmed the house from a single wood-burning stove located in the living room. As a boy, Kirk had hated that black metal monster because of the blisters it represented. Chop and split, chop and split—it was the same routine every time he came to visit. Eventually he began to suspect that it was his uncle's way of proving to a farm boy that ranch chores were as tough as anything back in Iowa. And in spite of a few blisters, Kirk had enjoyed visiting his taciturn, reclusive uncle here in the rugged mountains of Idaho.

It was good to be back. Levering himself upright, he drank from the flask of liquor tucked under the mattress before slipping into his custom exo-shell. The thick sensor mesh fit snugly around his legs and lower torso, and he pulled his pants over it before turning the unit on. He hated the contraption. Sure, it enabled him to walk upright—slowly and carefully. No amount of training had improved his speed, but eventually he made it into the bathroom, then the kitchen where breakfast awaited him.

"Thought you looked a little peaked last night," Lemuel said, slapping down a plate of ham, eggs, and country-fried potatoes.

Kirk's stomach rebelled at the sight of so much food. He picked at an orange yolk and a little potato, washing it down with plenty of strong, black coffee.

"Not much of an appetite," the old man observed.

Kirk felt a twinge of shame, and it annoyed him. He told himself that there was no reason to offer his uncle an explanation, that even though he had come here uninvited, he was still entitled to some privacy. He gave an apologetic shrug and left it at that.

Lemuel's dark eyes narrowed as they studied him. "There won't be any drinkin' around here. I won't put up with it."

The sense of shame deepened. So his uncle had heard, and somehow his opinion mattered. "Lem," he said, "I told you yesterday that people would be looking for me. A lot of people are going to be calling here—even Cousin Lucas."

Lemuel stretched out his long, lean frame and nodded. "Yup. He already did."

Kirk twitched, heart pounding. "He did? What did you tell him?"

"Told him you were a troublemaker from the start," Lem replied with typically sharp-edged humor. "Told him I hoped they'd find you in a hurry, before the news services announce there's a drunk on the loose and disgrace the whole damn family."

Kirk went limp, and in that moment of fierce relief he made a resolution. "I'm through with it, Lem. I'm here to dry out. Not another drop, I swear."


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

As a child living on Vulcan, Spock had been influenced by his father to disdain the odd traditions his mother observed when the Earth calendar turned to December, but living among humans—one of whom was now his wife—had made him more tolerant of Christmas celebrations.

Lauren's father had been Christian, and her mother was Jewish. As a result she had been exposed to a curious medley of Judeo-Christian customs that she was intent on passing down to their children. Needless to say, Simon and the twins entered wholeheartedly into the "spirit of Christmas". Each year the house took on the odors of specially baked foods, and pine sap from the tree Lauren brought into a corner of the living room and decorated.

Long ago, Spock had researched the Yuletide customs and had ready answers for the inevitable questions posed to him by the children. Yet, all too often, it seemed that his answers were wrong.

Just now James, no doubt prompted by his Vulcan genes, had suddenly asked, "Fadda, why's dare a twee in the house, anyway?"

Spock set down his datapadd and launched on a historical explanation, only to be interrupted by Teresa. "No, Daddy! Everybody know it's so Santa can put the pwesents under!"

To be sure, there were already a good many "pwesents" under the tree, but Teresa was looking forward to the gifts that would appear on Christmas morning because she had heard from Simon that "Santa always gives the best ones".

Sometimes it seemed to Spock that Simon was deliberately trying to undermine his efforts to instruct the twins. Teresa spoke of Santa as if he were a living, breathing entity—as if Spock had never told her the factual story of Saint Nicholas, never patiently explained how it had evolved into the lavish Santa Claus mythology that endured to modern times.

At least James was more sensible. "Weesa," he said now, with all the scorn a three-year-old could summon, "Santa isn't weal. Fadda said."

Teresa's little jaw set. Blue eyes flashing, she turned on her brother. "Well, Daddy's wong—you'll see. You'll both see, 'cause Santa's bwinging me something weal special."

Spock raised an eyebrow. "Indeed. And what might that be?"

Teresa assumed an air of mystery. "Can't tell. Simon says you never get your wish if you tell."

James' eyes widened. "Even if you whisper?"

She considered for a moment. Then coming over to Spock's chair, she climbed up beside him and whispered her secret into one pointed ear. "I just want evwybody to get along wiff evwybody."

It was not at all what Spock had expected, but Teresa was most perceptive for a child of her tender years. And she was inclined to blurt out exactly what she thought about matters.

Teary-eyed, she complained, "Nobody knows where Uncle Jim is, an' Gwampa Sarek never comes around, an' Simon's not very nice at all."

With a leaden heart Spock brushed the fine blonde curls away from her cheek. And for once he did not know what to say to her.

oooo

At the Vulcan embassy, Ambassador Sarek stood alone in his private quarters, thinking. The rooms were simply but elegantly furnished with the Earth antiques his wife had selected over the years, but without Amanda here to enjoy them, the place seemed barren.

Turning to the second story window, he gazed out upon the San Francisco skyline and experienced a fresh pang of isolation. It seemed a shameful indulgence considering the weighty matters that should be occupying him. But today everywhere he looked, he saw Amanda.

Sarek forced himself back to his desk. He was reordering his thoughts when the computer console signaled an incoming transmission from a civilian starliner.

"Onscreen," he ordered.

The viewer gave a brief flicker, then coalesced into the shockingly familiar image of a human female. Dumbfounded, Sarek stared at his fragile wisp of a wife, and for a moment his mind seemed to break free of every constraint that had been so carefully imposed upon it. All the pain of the past months washed over him. Each wrenching detail of the fateful argument on Vulcan—only one of many—so very many that he had, at first, been relieved when Amanda left him. But then the emptiness had set in. Before long he had found that he missed her—missed every endearing, aggravating thing about her. Yes, even the disagreements. He had sometimes found himself wishing he could tell her so, but the Vulcan pride _she_ found so aggravating always prevented it.

Now the reproach in her eyes seemed to reach down inside him and pierce his heart.

"Sarek," she said with her own quiet share of pride.

He offered her a restrained, courtly nod. "Amanda."

There was an awkward pause before she said, "You will have heard that I petitioned Vulcan's High Council of Elders, and they have ruled in favor of our son."

Sarek repressed a sigh. Yes, of course he had heard. No doubt his wife was angry that he had chosen to remain here on Earth, tending to crucial matters of state, rather than petition the council himself. No doubt she would also think him cold and uncaring for not immediately dropping everything to go beg his son's forgiveness.

When he offered no comment, she continued. "I'm on my way to Earth and expect to arrive at San Francisco the day after tomorrow."

Again, no comment.

For a moment Amanda just spoke to him gently with her eyes. Then she said, "If you would meet my flight, I'll gladly return with you to the embassy and hear all about your conversation with Spock."

 _Conversation? With Spock?_ The silence stretched as Sarek considered everything his wife had said, and everything she had left unsaid. Surely Amanda realized there had been no conversation, but she would not expect to see him at the spaceport unless he first made an effort to reconcile with their son. If he made such an effort, she would likely return to the embassy with him and resume their marriage.

To Amanda it all seemed quite simple. Would she never understand Vulcan ways? Even though the interdict against Spock had been lifted, Sarek could not just go to him and apologize for an action undertaken both logically and legally. Vulcans were not given to apologies. If, by chance, a Vulcan found that he had wronged someone, he simply made restitution in an efficient, unemotional manner. While Sarek was willing to acknowledge that he may have inadvertently caused difficulties for his son, he was quite sure that he had _not_ acted wrongly. How then could he satisfy his own sense of propriety and still bring about a reconciliation with Spock? Though Amanda was an obstinate woman, she was his bondmate and he yearned to reunite with her.

"Well?" she pressed.

Sarek's thoughts turned to the high level briefing he had attended at Federation Headquarters earlier today…and suddenly a plan came to him. Perhaps, after all, this unfortunate affair could be settled to everyone's satisfaction, but first he must consult with the president.

Drawing a carefully measured breath, he spoke at last. "I will attempt to meet you at the spaceport, my wife."

oooo

The summons could hardly have come at a less opportune time.

"So like him," Spock said with thinly veiled annoyance. "At last Sarek wishes to break his silence and it must be now, this very moment, at the ambassador's convenience."

"He's used to giving orders," Lauren pointed out in a very neutral tone meant to remind him that the children were right there, listening. "He probably doesn't even realize how it sounds."

Spock abruptly deleted the lettering of Sarek's stilted message from the phone bank. "He's a diplomat with lifelong experience in the ways of diplomacy. He knows precisely how it sounds."

Collecting himself, he turned to face his children. Dressed in their finest clothes, they stood in a row watching him with troubled eyes. They had been heading out the door, on their way to a Saturday afternoon Christmas concert where Simon was playing a solo. It was clear from Simon's face that he had read his grandfather's message and reached his own conclusion about it. Clutching his violin case, he stalked off to sulk on the front porch.

"Daddy," Teresa asked, "aren't you coming wiff us?"

Spock exchanged a long look with Lauren. If he went to Sarek, they both knew what it would mean in terms of Spock's troubled relationship with Simon. Yet Lauren's eyes—and his own Vulcan sense of duty—urged him to accept his father's overture, and in so doing perhaps even bring about a reconciliation between his parents.

Reaching the only possible decision, he said, "I'll see what Father wants. Perhaps it will not take very long."

On his way out he paused beside his eldest son, but Simon would not meet his eyes. Spock spoke to him anyway. "I regret that I cannot accompany you now, but if time allows, I will go on to the auditorium."

The boy mumbled something incomprehensible about holding his breath, but Spock did not ask him to clarify.

oooo

Sunlight, amplified and reddened to approximate the characteristics of Vulcan, beat down on the little stretch of sand in the embassy's solarium. The heat felt good on Sarek's shoulders as he sat on a stone bench awaiting his son's arrival.

Before long he glimpsed a tall, slender figure striding toward the solarium's transparent wall. Sarek had known Spock would come. If not out of obedience or respect, then to satisfy his ever-active curiosity. And this time Sarek himself had to admit to some measure of curiosity as he followed Spock's movements. Outwardly he could detect little change in his son, but a year of imprisonment and disgrace would surely leave its mark.

Wearing human clothes, Spock halted at the glass door and looked at him. Sarek prepared himself and then rose, feeling his shoes sink into the warm sand.

He signaled for his son to enter.

Spock slid the panel aside and joined him in the simulated heat of Vulcan. For an awkward moment they stood face to face, silently taking stock of one another. There were certain courtesies that must be followed; they both knew whose place it was to speak first.

Finally Spock raised his hand in the customary salute and said, "Greetings, Father. You sent for me?"

Sarek returned the gesture. Then joining his arms, wrist to wrist, so that his hands disappeared into the wide sleeves of his robe, he said, "Every time I come to this place, I am reminded of your bonding ceremony." And, "Is Lauren well?"

"Yes," Spock replied, standing stiffly.

"And your children? Are they also well?"

"Sufficiently so," came the response, and Sarek knew that Spock was speaking of young James, who was doomed to die from Vash-Lester.

"Please," Sarek said, "sit down."

They settled onto separate benches.

Now that the preliminaries were over, Sarek began to redirect their conversation. "I understand that you are not currently committed to any particular work."

Spock's dark, watchful eyes held him. "I am considering several offers of employment."

Before proceeding any further, Sarek briefly re-examined his own motivation. Naturally, there was the matter of winning Amanda's approval and his own lifelong wish for his son to join him in the field of diplomacy. Was he allowing those personal interests to unduly influence him? Of one thing he was certain: here was a singular opportunity, and by speaking to President Ra-ghoratrei he had already committed to this course.

Forging ahead, he declared, "In that case, you may wish to postpone your decision until you have thoroughly considered what I am about to say."

A look born of suspicion—and typical curiosity—darted across Spock's unlined face. And right then and there, Sarek knew that he would stay and listen. "The information I am about to disclose affects the security of the entire Federation. Therefore everything I tell you must remain strictly confidential."

Spock gazed at him, unblinking. "Understood."

In the past, Spock had scored some small successes in the diplomatic field, but he was not as experienced as Sarek would have liked…and one never knew when Spock's emotions would slip his control. But for all Spock's flaws, his intellect was sound and Sarek knew he could trust his son's loyalty to the Federation. And so he drew a deep breath and divulged the secret.

"The starship Excelsior has monitored a devastating explosion on the Klingon moon Praxis. As I am sure you know, Praxis provided the main source of energy for the Klingon homeworld. The blast has left that world's atmosphere dangerously polluted. In less than fifty Earth years, they will deplete their supply of oxygen."

One eyebrow rose as Spock absorbed the information. "Fascinating," he murmured.

"Quite so," Sarek agreed. "As a result of this disaster, the warrior class has found its power seriously challenged by a faction willing to consider the benefits of peaceful coexistence with the Federation. They are led by Gorkon, chancellor of the Klingon High Council."

"Peaceful coexistence?" Spock cast him a skeptical look; how easily his emotions surfaced.

"Gorkon has proposed peace negotiations—openly, in the Klingon Council. I realize that many of your past encounters with Klingons have led you to distrust them, but I have reason to believe that Chancellor Gorkon is honorable."

Spock withheld comment. Clearly he was waiting to see how these revelations involved him. It was a typical Vulcan reaction, yet just now Sarek found even that a bit trying. Vulcan, human—one never knew which behavior to expect from Spock. Rising, he walked the sand slowly before coming to a stop. Facing his son, he said it outright. "I would like you to assume the role of Special Federation Envoy. As such, you would be responsible for opening a dialogue with Chancellor Gorkon."

As Spock retreated further behind his Vulcan mask, Sarek resisted a most unVulcan urge to snap at him. _Don't you realize what I am offering you? The kind of risk I am taking? Have you nothing at all to say?_

Then, at last, Spock opened his mouth and said, "Why me?"

To Sarek, the response had an oafish sound—the sort of thing a young child might ask, and Spock was no child. Though he consulted the discipline of Vulcan, he could not quite rid his voice of exasperation. "Why, you ask? Because, first and foremost, you are my son, and my name commands a measure of respect, even among the Klingons. Your ties to Captain Kirk make you appear strong to the Klingons, who both fear and respect him as a great warrior. Even the fact that you had, for a time, been accused of trying to kill him would only increase your stature in the eyes of many Klingons."

"So I am a useful tool."

"You are my _son_." It was as close as Sarek would come to an apology.

Spock stood, and their eyes met on a level. "It is an interesting offer," he said tonelessly. "I will consider the proposition. Now, if there is nothing more…"

Sarek raised a hand to stay him. "There is more." And he asked, "Has Kirk been located?"

The question clearly surprised Spock; it took a moment for him to say, quite simply, "No. He is still missing."

"So I had heard," Sarek noted. "It is said that you were the last person who saw him. It is said that you did not part…cordially."

Spock's silence seemed to confirm the fact, and Sarek could not help but be saddened. Over the years he had come to know many of Spock's human friends, and of them all he had liked Captain Kirk best.

"Most unfortunate, in view of current events. Now, more than ever, the Federation has need of Kirk's experience."

For the first time since entering the solarium, Spock opened a little. "Jim is not the man you remember. Even if he were found, it is unlikely that he would be useful to anyone."

Sarek softly sighed. "This, too, I had been told—but I had not wanted to believe it."

Spock held his eyes a moment longer. Then raising his hand in the Vulcan salute, he said, "Father, if there is nothing more, I must take leave of you."

For whatever reason, he seemed in a hurry, so Sarek returned the gesture and brought their meeting to an end.

oooo

The first time Kirk heard Lemuel say it, he had thought his uncle was joking.

"Could use some work on that firewood, Jim. Long as you're staying here, I'll put you in charge of that."

 _"_ _Me?"_ Kirk had gasped, gesturing reflexively at his legs as if, perhaps, Lem might have forgotten his disability.

With a dour, unsympathetic shake of his grey head, Lemuel replied, "You've got arms, don't you? And you hobble around just fine on those exo-gizmos."

And so it was that Kirk found himself out in the sunny yard, wrestling an axe. It was a mild December day in Idaho—a veritable heat wave, with afternoon temperatures rising into the mid-sixties. Sweat beaded his face as he pitted the heavy steel blade against thick, fragrant chunks of pine. As he had discovered, it was a matter of leverage. After a few tumbles and blisters and plenty of sore muscles, he learned how to compensate for his handicap and developed a respectable swing.

It was actually starting to feel good, doing something so basic to survival, carrying a small but vital share of the ranch workload. And chopping wood helped relieve the restless urges that crept over him like a dark, gnawing hunger. There were days when he would have given all his money for just one shot of bourbon to ease the craving when it struck. He had obtained a supply of prescription pills that offered some relief. At times they were the only thing that kept him going, but when things were at their worst, when he began to shake and sweat, he thought of how he had helped Spock when the ungrateful Vulcan was battling a serious addiction of his own, of how he had kept Spock aboard ship, out of rehab. And he knew that somehow he would get through this without Spock's idea of help, and sooner or later he would make his highhanded "friend" pay dearly. But for today, he had other plans.

After finishing his allotment of wood, Kirk washed up and went into the barn. His heart pounded as he chose a bridle and approached the stall where Lem's gentlest saddle horse stood watching. He spoke softly to the big buckskin. Expecting a treat, Biscuit stretched out his neck and Kirk slipped the bit into his mouth. After securing the bridle straps, he carefully led the gelding out of the stall, tied him to a rail, and saddled him.

"Good boy," he laughed, and gave Biscuit a triumphant pat.

This was as far as he had gotten on his last attempt, but was unable to maintain his balance while raising his foot to the stirrup. Now he would try something different. Lemuel had a little lift for loading bales of hay into the loft. It was a simple flat platform, perfect for what Kirk had in mind. Now, with Lem away for the afternoon, he would give his idea a try.

Holding tightly to the reins, he led Biscuit over by the lift and carefully stepped onto the platform. He gradually raised it by a meter or so. _Perfect_. Steadying himself with a hold on Biscuit's neck, he brought his right leg over the top of the saddle. Then he was astride the horse with his feet in the stirrups, half-giddy from the feeling of power, of motion, and yes—fear. He had not ridden a horse since Nimbus 3, and now he was depending on an exo-shell to keep his balance. One false move and he would hit the ground…and from atop Biscuit that ground seemed terribly far away. But he was not about to let that stop him. With a wonderful sense of regained freedom, he headed out into the hills.

Kirk enjoyed his secret adventure so much that he repeated it every time Lemuel left for town or rode out to check on the little herd of prize Angus cattle he had kept after his retirement. On his fifth day out, he was exploring a lovely tree-studded area when some inner prompting made him glance up a hillside.

A horse and rider stood silhouetted by the cloudless sky. Startled, he drew back on the reins. Even from this distance he could see it was a woman, a slender dark-haired woman, and she was watching him. Instinct sounded a warning to get out of there and avoid the danger of recognition that even a casual contact could bring, yet curiosity held him.

As he hesitated, the woman raised her arm and offered a friendly wave. He was still deciding whether or not to wave back when she pointed her horse down the hill and came galloping toward him. Now it was too late, and Kirk nearly panicked as she arrived in a flurry of pounding hooves. He grabbed for the saddle horn, steadying himself as Biscuit danced around with excitement. He did not want to fall—no, surely not now, in front of this raven-haired beauty.

"Hello," she said with a smile. Warm brown eyes studied him. "Haven't we met somewhere before?"

It was a phrase he had heard countless times during his Starfleet career. People saw his face on the news, and later forgot where they had seen it. But he was quite sure that he had never met this lovely woman anywhere before.

"No," he replied, "I don't think so."

He could tell by her expression that she was too intrigued by the sense of recognition to entirely believe him.

"My name is Antonia," she said. "Antonia Cordova."

Kirk's memory jogged. His uncle has mentioned something about an artist living nearby, but he had never imagined the artist was Cordova the painter, nor that Antonia Cordova could possibly look anything like this. For a moment the feelings she stirred in him almost made Kirk forget that his body was half dead. Then his horse shifted and he seized the saddle horn again.

Antonia's eyes twinkled with amusement. "Haven't been riding long, have you?"

He hid his embarrassment under a self-deprecating smile. "I've never claimed to be a cowboy."

She laughed—a sound as warm and sweet as a summer breeze. "Okay, so you're not a cowboy. Then who are you?"

"My name is Jim…" he said, barely stopping himself in time. "Jim…Tiber."

oooo

Spock and his wife both cherished the privacy of their home, and for that reason they seldom invited more than a couple of guests at a time for dinner, and then only after consulting with one another. However, by a strange twist of circumstances, on this particular evening they found their house fairly bursting with company.

Lauren's mother and Aaron Pascal had come by actual invitation, but others—like Doctor McCoy and Nyota Uhura from the recently docked Enterprise—had simply "dropped in". Among them were Mr. and Mrs. Sakata, who arrived bearing a tiny bonsai tree meticulously trained by Mr. Sakata's own skillful hands. Over the years, the Japanese groundkeeper and his wife—"Auntie", as the children called her—had become more than employees, and Lauren insisted that they stay for dinner.

The door chimed yet again. Spock opened it and found his father and mother—together for the first time in months—accompanied by Amanda's sister, Doris Breskin.

With her hand on Sarek's arm, Amanda smiled and said, "We happened to be in the neighborhood and I thought I'd surprise you."

Sarek's tolerant expression suggested that her words were somewhat less than truthful, that perhaps he would rather be elsewhere, but there he stood. Coming out of his shock, Spock exchanged greetings and ushered them all inside.

At the very first opportunity, Lauren drew Spock into the kitchen and said, "So your little visit with Sarek did the trick. And guess what? I have a feeling that we'll be hearing from Jim soon."

"Lauren…" he said with some exasperation.

"All these years," she reproached him, "and you can still doubt my intuition?"

Spock merely raised an eyebrow and returned to the living room. He was standing alone near the Christmas tree, wondering if he dare trust this latest premonition, when Lauren's mother appeared at his side.

Gems sparkled on Elizabeth's rings as she gestured toward the guests, the music, and the laughter. "Spock, you never fail to amaze me. I thought you hated parties."

"I would not use so strong a term," Spock remarked.

Her dark eyes shone with amusement. "Which term do you mean? 'Hate' or 'party'?"

"Both," Spock replied. "I prefer to think of this as a gathering of friends, and one cannot—in all logic—despise the company of a friend."

She raised her wine glass in tribute. "Well said. Now that I have you all to myself, there's a question of a credit transfer that hit my account this morning. Would you happen to know anything about it?"

"I do," Spock acknowledged. "Consider it the first installment toward full repayment of the money you loaned Lauren."

She sighed. "Spock, there was never any loan."

"That is most gracious of you," he said, "but nevertheless, the money will be repaid with appropriate interest…" He inclined his head. "And gratitude."

As Elizabeth moved on, Spock heard a chime signal the arrival of a long-range transmission. With a faint hope that Lauren's "feeling" was about to prove accurate, he took a seat at the phone alcove. But the face that appeared on the screen had no connection to the missing captain. For a moment the security of his home faded into a dark, fetid tunnel of memories…and there, at the very end of the tunnel, a pair of gray eyes spoke of the friendship that had kept two men sane in the midst of insanity. Eyes from another world, another lifetime.

"Hello from lockup," Leo Kessler said with a wry smile.

The message from Spock's former cellmate was not long; very little happened in prison that was worth repeating. When the transmission was over, he turned and found Simon standing nearby, watching him. The boy looked angry.

"Is something the matter?" Spock asked.

Simon's frown deepened as he looked down and dug at the carpet with the toe of his shoe. Finally he said, "That man…that man on the phone is…"

"A convict?" Spock had no difficulty saying the word. "Yes, just as I was, not long ago."

Simon's jaw clenched and his eyes rose up, flashing. "But he's a _real_ criminal! I know who he is, and he's a murderer!"

A few of the guests were in the vicinity of the alcove. At Simon's outburst they fell silent, leaving an undercurrent of music to fill the sudden, uncomfortable void. Spock noticed his father among the group.

Very quietly he told Simon, "Leo Kessler is my friend."

The guests discreetly moved out of earshot—all, that is, but Sarek.

 _"_ _Jim_ used to be your friend," Simon said hotly, "but you don't give a damn about _him_ , anymore!"

A painful flood of emotions briefly challenged Spock's control: anger, dismay, frustration. He would have to punish Simon for his insolence, yet a part of him ached to take the boy into his arms—this same precious son he had cradled as an infant—and somehow put everything right between them. But he did not know how to do that, any more than he knew how to right all the bitter years of difficulty between himself and his own father.

Sternly he said, "Simon, you will go to your room, shut the door _quietly_ , and remain there."

For a moment Simon just glared at him. Then he turned and ran upstairs. When Spock looked where his father had been standing, Sarek was gone.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

It was a dangerous, selfish game he was playing, yet Kirk could not seem to force Jim Tiber back into the lonely box where he had found him. Oh, it had started innocently enough. A bit of an adventure, a flirtation—something to help fill the empty moments of his life, and there were far too many of those. He told himself it was only a happy coincidence that most every time he went riding, he seemed to run into Antonia. It was not until their conversations turned serious that he began to think she might actually care for him as much as he found himself caring about her.

The realization shook him. Now he could plainly see her confusion mounting each time he refused her simple requests.

"Jim, come over to my house, it's not far." "No? Well, at least get down off that horse and we can walk along Plum Creek." "Jim, are you glued to that animal?"

Today she dismounted, stood beside his horse, and laid her hand on the deadened nerves of his leg. "Somebody's hurt you," she sadly concluded, "haven't they? And now you don't want to let anyone close."

The words tore at him. With all his heart he longed to climb down off his horse and take Antonia into his arms, but not even Jim Tiber could do that.

"I've had my share of pain," he conceded.

Tears welled in her eyes. Silently she turned from him and mounted her horse. She was about to ride away when Kirk made a wrenching decision and called out, "Wait!"

Antonia sat gazing up at the ridge.

Kirk's throat tightened. "Antonia, I know it's hard for you to understand me. Maybe…maybe someday I can explain. But first I have to go away."

She swung around and looked at him, tears sliding down her cheeks. "You're coming back," she said. It was more of a heartfelt demand than a question.

Kirk wished he could give her that one promise, but even if Aaron Pascal's treatment was fully successful—even if he came back with a strong, healthy body—the man she wanted was named Tiber, not Kirk. In the end all he could honestly say was, "I love you."

oooo

Spock knew there was no logical reason for him to linger at Starfleet Medical Center. He had already spent the early morning hours in the emergency room with James; the boy had weathered another health crisis and was now back at home with his mother. But then, just as Lauren had predicted, word of Kirk came; he had been admitted as a patient and was about to undergo the Transmigrator treatment. Though Spock's presence could not possibly affect the treatment's outcome or bring his estranged friend any comfort, he had immediately returned to the hospital—perhaps because it was the human thing to do. And hoping that the experience might bring Simon closer, he allowed the boy to accompany him. It had seemed like a fine idea, but the reality fell far short of Spock's expectations.

In mid-afternoon they sat at opposite corners of the room where others had gathered to await news of Kirk's condition. Montgomery Scott and Doctor McCoy were discussing a rumor they had heard regarding some unusual scientific inquiries originating from the Klingon Empire. The conversation quickly spread throughout the room as others added their own observations.

Suddenly McCoy turned and said, "Spock, have you heard anything about it?"

Spock slowly set the down the datapadd he had been using. He could feel Simon's eyes on him. Everyone was looking his way, waiting to see how he would respond. Finally he said, "As I am no longer a member of Starfleet, I could hardly be privy to such confidential matters."

There was a concerted sigh of disappointment. Simon slouched down in his chair as if the answer had acutely embarrassed him.

Then Scott said, "Aye, but surely ye've got wind of _somethin'_."

Commander Uhura nodded. "Subspace has been buzzing with the strangest chatter, and no one has been able to tell us why the Enterprise has been recalled." She paused. "Mr. Spock, do you suppose it could mean…war?"

A hush fell over the waiting room. Once more Simon's eyes darted toward his father and it almost seemed as if Spock could read his disdainful thoughts. _Why are they bothering to ask you? You're not in Starfleet anymore. You're nothing but an unemployed ex-con."_

Spock drew a slow breath. "I would not venture any opinion at this point," he said, and then excused himself.

The others continued speculating about the Klingons as he headed out into the corridor. He stopped to drink from a water fountain, then stood alone, thinking. With their home world dying, the Klingons would likely act in one of two ways in order to guarantee their survival. Make peace with the Federation, or invade.

T'Beth had been little older than Simon when she had the misfortune of falling with Spock into Klingon hands. It had been an ugly, brutal episode, and now it chilled Spock to think of a Klingon attack threatening his very home.

He rose from his thoughts to find a robed figure walking toward him…

Sarek approached his son with a slow step. It was disappointing to find Spock wasting time while the fate of the entire Federation hung in the balance. Once more he questioned the motivations that led him to offer his son such a sensitive diplomatic mission.

For the sake of privacy, they withdrew to one of the small meditation rooms that were located on each floor of the hospital. Once inside, Sarek went straight to the point. "You have had ample time to consider the proposal I made to you at the embassy. Obviously you have been preoccupied with various issues of a personal nature." As Spock's eyebrow rose, Sarek continued with a well-chosen quote. "Surak said, 'It is a wise man who sets his own house in order before taking on the affairs of state'. Spock, your family and friendships are placing heavy demands upon your time. I will understand if you must decline my offer."

Spock stiffened as if his human sensibilities had somehow been offended. And Sarek wondered, _Now what? The Vulcan equivalent of_ _"Take your offer and go to hell"?_ Well, he had tried his best and in the process achieved an amicable reunion with Amanda, if nothing else. Releasing his hopes for Spock's participation, he waited…but as it turned out, his hopes had not been in vain.

"It would then seem," Spock said, "that I am unwise, for I have decided to accept the assignment. If you have not changed your mind regarding my suitability, I will do my best to open a dialogue with Chancellor Gorkon."

Along with relief, Sarek felt the weariness of age creeping up on him. He had devoted his entire life to the highest standards of interplanetary diplomacy. Now he could only hope that Spock's "best" would not land them both on history's galactic blacklist.

oooo

Kirk had no patience for the stir his sudden reappearance created. There was only one reason he had come to the medical center, and he wanted to be done with it. But clearly the word was out. So much for confidentiality. As a nurse settled him into bed, he found flowers already waiting on a side table.

"My my, aren't you popular," the nurse said with a smile. She glanced at a signature card displayed in a little pot of gardenias. "This one's from Lauren…and family. Is that your wife, Captain?"

 _If Lauren knew, then so did Spock._ He grit his teeth against the bitter taste of defeat. "No, she's not my wife and I'm not a captain. Take those smelly things somewhere else, will you?"

She had scarcely left when a circle of smock-clad doctors closed in on him, along with a uniformed man who Kirk had met not long ago.

"So good to see you again, Mr. Kirk," Aaron Pascal said with a French accent as he held out his hand.

Pascal wore his usual neatly trimmed beard and a smile that Kirk did not quite trust. After all, this was Spock's friend—his young protégé hand-picked from the European Alps. Who could tell what was really going on beneath those meticulous manners?

Kirk declined the handshake.

Pascal maintained his pasted-on smile as he lowered his arm. "I'm so pleased that you've had a change of heart. You should benefit greatly from the Transmigrator therapy."

"I…'should'." Kirk did not like the indefinite sound of that. The Transmigrator was still in an experimental phase. What if he came out in even worse shape? What if he had been right all along, and this was just an elaborate Starfleet plot to get rid of him—permanently?"

He could hear his heartbeat racing on the monitor above the bed, and tried to set his mind on Antonia.

Pascal leaned over him, and Kirk felt a warm touch on his hand. "It's only natural to be anxious, Mr. Kirk. Before we start, I'd like to take a moment and explain everything, so you know exactly what to expect."

All through the little pep talk, Pascal kept stressing that there was no reason to worry. It was all very simple. First, a thorough examination. Then the doctors would painlessly extract healthy nerve cells for accelerated cloning. During the final stage, the Transmigrator would reduce Kirk's entire body to sub-atomic particles and selectively reassemble it, holding back damaged cells and replacing them with the ones that were cloned. If everything "went well", he would soon have feeling and movement in his lower body.

"And if it doesn't 'go well'?" Kirk questioned. "What then? You just call it a bad run and scrape me into a pail?"

Everyone laughed as if he were joking.

"In this phase we've never had a bad run," Pascal said, and handed over a paper document releasing Starfleet from liability.

Holding back anger, Kirk scribbled his name.

Later that day he awakened to find a man standing near his bed.

Commander Pascal approached him with a very satisfied look and announced, "It's over. See for yourself. Get up and walk."

Kirk stared at him, not quite believing. Maybe the Transmigrator had worked on Spock, but Spock was half Vulcan. His body was stronger, his infirmities puny compared to Kirk's paralysis. After all, how much work would it take to cure a little limp?

Pascal pulled back the covers and touched the foot jutting from Kirk's pajama leg. Kirk knew without a doubt that Pascal had touched him. He _felt_ it—warm skin, the pressure of fingers rubbing over flesh and bone!

Kirk watched, utterly thrilled, as Pascal's hand went to the sole of his other foot. He _felt_ a tickle and _jerked_ his foot away!

Pascal chuckled. "Go ahead—try them out. Walk."

Suddenly, deep down, Kirk knew he _could_ walk. Overcome with excitement, he flexed his legs, swung them over the side of the bed and stood, bracing himself. He could _feel_ the blood pumping through his muscles so sure and strong that he had to stare down at them. He could not remember ever feeling so alive. It made him want to run and jump like a boy.

"That's it, "Pascal said. "You're doing fine."

Kirk let go of the bed and took a cautious step. His balance was perfect! He tried another step, and another, and then he was freely striding back and forth across the room.

Whirling to face Pascal, he said, "I'm cured! I'm really cured!"

"Of course," Pascal said with a cool, understated arrogance that make Kirk's temper rise. "And I hope you won't forget that it was Spock who convinced you to take the treatment."

 _Spock? Convinced me?_ Kirk's hands clenched at his sides. _Is that what the Vulcan was telling everyone?_

"Oh, I won't forget his part in this," Kirk snapped. "Rest assured, I have every intention of thanking our good Mr. Spock. In fact, I'd like to give him my thanks right now."

Pascal smiled. "He's out in the waiting room. Shall I get him?"

"No need for that." Still in pajamas but not caring, Kirk burst out the door and strode down the hospital corridor, searching for the Vulcan. Of course he was here, making sure the job was done just as he wanted it. He and his friend Pascal always putting their superior heads together, speaking a scientific blather only they could comprehend. _Well,_ Kirk thought, flexing his fingers, _I have a private language all my own, and Spock is about to learn it—the hard way._

Stopping suddenly, he ducked his head into a waiting room and saw the back of a seated figure. There was no mistaking that smooth, dark cap of hair. In a few healthy strides, Kirk stood before him. As Spock glanced up, Kirk seized the unsuspecting Vulcan and jerked him to his feet. Kirk threw all his newfound strength into the first punch and caught Spock hard on the jaw. The Vulcan lost his footing and fell on top of the seats, one arm raised in an attempt to ward off the flurry of punishing blows. Somehow, amidst it all, the Vulcan managed to pick himself up. For a moment they just circled one another, Kirk untouched, relishing the fresh green blood flowing from a gash below Spock's rapidly swelling eye.

"Come on," Kirk goaded, "here I am on my feet, you conniving son-of-a-bitch!"

Someone touched his arm. He shrugged it off.

Now someone was touching him again. Annoyed, Kirk glanced over…and rose from a nightmarish mist of sedation to find himself flat on his back in bed.

A fuzzy pair of faces seemed to be floating above him.

"Jim," a woman said very softly.

A sickening taste of violence lingered as he fought to clear his mind, his eyesight. _Who was there? What was happening?_

"Jim," the voice came again.

"Antonia…?" He barely choked out the name.

He felt a soft, warm hand gripping his, and she responded, "Yes, Jim, it's me. I followed you back to Lem Howard's place. He told me you were coming here. He told me why…"

Kirk breathed a deep sigh and closed his eyes. He felt his body relax into the bed. There was something strange about the feeling, but he did not have the strength to analyze it. For now it was good just to lie there basking in Antonia's presence.

What had she said? _He told me why._ That meant she knew who he was, and all about his paralysis. He had been dishonest with her, yet here she was, sitting at his side, holding his hand.

He felt someone pull the blanket off his legs. Opening his eyes, he made them focus on the man bending over him.

"Do you feel this?" the doctor said, and touched his left leg.

Numbly, Kirk nodded. _That was it—that was the strangeness! His whole body felt alive!_

Was it just another dream?

Aaron Pascal moved in beside the doctor and smiled with the satisfaction of a man who has accomplished a difficult task and done it well. There was a gentle modesty about him that was so very refreshing that Kirk wondered why he had never noticed it before.

"Excellent," said the doctor. "Now try moving your feet for me."

Kirk's heart began to race. This was no dream—this was reality. _Move his feet?_ He had forgotten what it was like to plan some casual movement and have his body respond instantly, unthinkingly. Move his feet? The idea of wiggling even a single toe seemed impossible.

He thought of how easy it had been in his dream, how he had leapt off the bed and strode around on his two legs as if there had never been anything wrong with them. Is that how it would really happen? He would just get up and walk away, leaving behind all the misery of this past year? According to Pascal, his legs would be very weak until he completed a course of physical therapy.

"Go ahead, try," Antonia urged—this lady who had made him want to live again.

Kirk looked deeply into her eyes, then raised off his pillow and stared down at his feet. Though in one sense he _could_ feel them, it was as if they belonged to someone else, someone he had once been a long time ago, some stranger who had cared more for a starship than any flesh and blood woman. Now, for this woman's sake, he channeled all his strength and determination into one single goal.

Suddenly, a foot moved.

As Antonia cheered and threw her arms around him, he dropped back on the pillow and acknowledged his victory with a sweet, overdue kiss.

oooo

It was after five when Spock left the hospital and flew his skimmer alone in the darkness. Simon had departed hours earlier, skulking away like a willful pup while Spock was occupied with Sarek. The boy's disappearance had caused his mother a great deal of anxiety until he arrived safely home.

Now, Spock paused at his front door, listening to the extraordinary strains of violin music emanating from Simon's upstairs bedroom. The sound gave him no pleasure. Of what use was genius without character?

Reaching a decision, Spock left the wintry chill of the porch and went inside. Here, the violin was much louder. Its clear, pure notes conflicted with the Rachmaninoff someone had left playing in the living room. Lauren, most likely. The recording was one of her favorites, and she had a tendency to walk off and forget things when her mind was troubled. Like Spock, she also tended to escape into her work—and judging from the light beneath the door of her laboratory, she was still very troubled.

For a moment Spock listened to the confusion of sound, then turned on his heel and went upstairs. Stopping at Simon's door, he swung it open and stepped inside. Young James and Teresa sat next to their brother on his bed. At the sight of Spock, Simon's eyes widened. The music broke off and his bow fell away. As he slowly lowered his violin, the twins hopped down and raced over to Spock. James stumbled over the blanket he was carrying and landed, unhurt, at his father's feet. Teresa paused to right her fallen brother, then threw her arms around Spock's left leg.

"Daddy, Daddy," she said, snuggling against him. "Is Uncle Jim awight? Did you see him? Can he walk now?"

"No, I was not able to see him," Spock replied. He did not tell her that Kirk had refused his visit, while gladly admitting everyone else. "However," he added, "I have been informed that though his legs are weak from disuse, he will soon be walking in a normal manner."

Teresa broke into a dimpled smile. "See, Daddy? I was wight, wasn't I?" She must have discerned his confusion, for she explained, "'Bout the wish. It's nearly Christmas, an' evwybody's getting along. Aren't they?"

Spock felt an ache and steeled himself against it. "So it would seem. Now you and James go downstairs to your mother, so Simon and I can talk privately."

The door closed behind them and as Spock focused his attention on Simon, the boy shifted uncomfortably.

"I guess I'm in pretty deep trouble," Simon spoke in an unsteady voice.

"You guess correctly," Spock declared. "You did not have my permission to leave the hospital."

Simon's face reddened. With a prideful lift of his chin, he said, "I didn't want to be there anymore."

There was no need to ask him why. For a moment time seemed to slip and Spock felt almost as if he were in the boy's mind, glaring up at his own father—a cold, disapproving tower of a man. The vision was not an agreeable one. Drawing himself back into the present he said, "Put your violin away."

Simon's eyebrows quirked at the odd command. His hands trembled slightly as he returned the instrument to its case and put it in the closet. Then he turned back around very slowly. Did he sense what was coming?

"I regret," Spock told him, "that I must now break a promise I made to you."

Simon's chest began to rise and fall in a rapid rhythm. Tearfully he cried, "I liked it better when you were in prison!"

Spock refused the hurt and anger that welled inside him. Only yesterday he had picked up an old book belonging to Lauren and as he opened it at random, his eyes settled on these words. _"In order that a correction bear fruit, it must cost in the giving, and the heart must be free from the least shadow of passion"._ Astonishing wisdom from one of her saints—it might almost have been written by a Vulcan.

Yes, this would cost. But he had exhausted every other method of parental discipline—even briefly taking away Simon's violin, which had only incited a fiercer rebellion.

Without further delay, Spock turned the boy over his knee and spanked him.

oooo

Winter had come to the mountains of Idaho, coating the rugged countryside in a light, glistening layer of January snow. Using an English saddle, Kirk rode out with Antonia, laughing, galloping, and recklessly jumping the icy creek while his heart pounded with excitement. How far could he trust his regenerated legs? What if their newfound strength gave out just as the horse was landing? What if he fell into the hard, unforgiving stones that lined the creek bed?

"Jim, don't!" Antonia pleaded, but the sensation was so exhilarating that he turned his horse and jumped the creek twice again. He had been inactive for so long, that he felt driven to exert himself and test the limits of his vitality.

When the light waned, they rode slowly side by side to Antonia's house, where he had been staying since he finished physical therapy. It felt good, the way his feet hit the ground when he dismounted at the barn, the way each step made his ankles and knees flex.

Catching hold of Antonia, he crushed her against him. As he bent to kiss her full mouth, he felt the entire length of his body responding.

Antonia came up breathless, her eyes dark and apologetic beneath thick lashes.

"Jim…" The word puffed into a small, frosty cloud.

He reached for her again, but her palms flattened against his chest and firmly pushed him away.

Kirk struggled with a growing frustration. His newly recovered nerves were ready to function, but since that first week of lovemaking, Antonia had been warding off his advances.

Now she took hold of his hands. In a husky, halting voice she said, "Jim, try to understand. You're the most important person in my life…but my spiritual values are also important to me. I should never have gone to bed with you. It was wrong. That's something that only belongs in marriage."

Kirk's heart pounded. "Alright then, I'll—"

Her finger silenced the proposal that was on his lips.

"No, listen to me," she said. "In my faith, marriage is a sacrament—a sacred union that includes more than just the husband and wife. It also includes God."

He gave a wry smile. "God. Yes, I made his acquaintance on a little planet beyond the Great Barrier. He was very fond of hurling thunderbolts."

Tears filled her eyes. "It's not a joking matter."

"Sorry," he said.

She sighed. "I'm sorry, too. You've come a long way, but sometimes…under that quick humor of yours…I glimpse a deep bitterness, a terrible anger. It's something we need to talk about."

The words touched a sore spot and Kirk stiffened.

"Jim," she said tenderly.

Snow began to swirl down, driven by a sudden icy wind. Kirk repressed a shiver. It was disconcerting the way Antonia could sometimes see right through him. Half-heartedly he tossed her another humorous remark, then escaped into the house. He was acutely aware of having left her to care for the horses, but he needed a moment to himself. Hanging his coat on a hook beside the door, he stirred up the fire and sank onto the living room sofa.

After a while Antonia came into the house and stood near him, her eyes questioning.

"I'm alright," he lied.

She went over and checked the phone messages. "Starfleet Command has been calling for you again. It sounds important."

Kirk felt the muscles in his jaw tighten. Rising, he went over to a frosted window. It had grown dark outside. In the glass, a weary-looking man stared back at him through haunted eyes. Spock's somber face seemed to loom nearby, and Kirk heard a deep voice in his head. _"Abilities such as yours should not be wasted."_

"Looks who's talking," Kirk said under his breath. He had a right to live his own life any way he saw fit. And it wasn't a bad life, either. He had his legs back. He had stopped drinking. He had found a woman worth loving and she loved him in return. He even wanted to marry her. Imagine that, Jim Kirk married _. Imagine that, you arrogant, interfering Vulcan bastard, always thinking you know all the answers, always so damn full of yourself…_

Behind him, Antonia spoke. "Jim…darling…"

Kirk felt a sudden, uncontrollable rush of fury. Reaching out, he snatched a lamp from the table beside him and hurled it at Spock's spectral image.

oooo

Spock gazed at his reflection in the bedroom mirror as he adjusted his uniform. It seemed strange, after more than a year out of the service. He remembered the last time he had worn this very uniform—the courtroom reading of the verdict, then the humiliating order to strip naked before the starbase security guards. He remembered how cold and flimsy the prisoner's jumpsuit had felt when he put it on. Convicted by Starfleet of a crime he had not committed. Twenty years of imprisonment ahead of him.

He had not planned to return to active duty. He no longer felt as if he belonged in uniform, and wore it now only because the Federation had put it forth as a condition of his involvement in the Klingon peace effort. He had accepted that condition because it was logical. A diplomatic task of this magnitude was best managed under a secure chain of command. And a secure cover.

Satisfied with his appearance, he left the room and went downstairs. Lauren was seated in a chair, preparing to play her flute when she glanced his way. At the sight of his uniform she dropped the instrument and bolted to her feet.

"You are surprised," Spock said.

"Shocked out of my mind!" She came over and took a closer look at him. "I thought you were only interested in civilian work."

He shrugged an eyebrow. "Suffice it to say that—for now—I agree on its advisability."

"Agree? Agree with who?" Lauren frowned. Her eyes shifted to the stairs, where their eldest son had stopped to stare joyously at Spock.

"Father, you're back in Starfleet?!"

Since the "firm application of logic", Simon's attitude had markedly improved. A barbaric form of punishment? Undoubtedly, but in this instance the technique had proven effective. When Spock told Lauren that he spanked the boy, she had actually smiled and said, "Well, good for you."

Now Spock wondered how she—and Simon—would react to his cover mission. "Yes…back in Starfleet. I have agreed to oversee the refitting of the Luna prison colony into a zero-atmosphere training base."

Lauren gasped.

"Wow," Simon said in an appreciative burst of slang, "that'll show them!"

Lauren was not so enthusiastic. "Spock, are you serious? After everything that happened to you there?"

Gently he grasped her hands and felt the borders of her anxious mind lapping against his carefully screened thoughts. He did not like withholding any part of himself from her, but in all truth he could say, "It promises to be a most satisfying project."

oooo

Cold stung Admiral Cartwright's face as the transporter beam released him. He stood still for a moment, his eyes surveying the rustic two-story dwelling nestled among the pines up ahead. Fresh snow smothered the steep roof and lay untracked on the ground. Pungent wood smoke curled from a single large chimney constructed from stone. The perfection of the scene was spoiled by a boarded-up window, but the layout was nice. Real nice.

He headed for the porch, each step plunging his custom-made boots deep into the snow. At the front door he paused to stamp away the slush. The sound alerted whoever was inside. The door swung open to reveal a dark-haired woman even lovelier than her briefing photo back at Headquarters.

"Antonia Cordova?" Cartwright questioned.

She nodded. He introduced himself and asked to see James T. Kirk.

For a moment it seemed as if she might send him packing, then reluctantly she ushered him inside. A quick glance around the living room revealed no sign of the former starship captain. Cartwright smelled food from an adjoining kitchen and turned toward it.

Looking ill-at-ease, Miss Cordova headed that way and said, "Wait. I'll tell him you're here."

The kitchen door shut firmly behind her.

Left to himself, Cartwright wandered around the spacious living area. The house was built from thick sturdy timbers, their inner surfaces squared and polished to enhance the wood's naturally rich grain. Quaint "rag" rugs braided in bright patterns covered much of the hardwood floor.

He went over to the fireplace and studied the Native American baskets adorning the mantel. His eyes rose to the large painting that hung on the wall above. A lone man on horseback, gazing down a misty mountain valley. So fresh that he could smell the oils. He was still studying it when Cordova came back into the room.

Kirk was beside her and he looked mad as hell.

Cartwright gave the painting an appreciative nod. "Jim, I can sure tell that's you. Miss Cordova, you're a very fine artist."

She thanked him, and after politely excusing herself, went upstairs.

Kirk's face was taut. "Cartwright, this is a private home. You have no business coming here. I want you to leave, and I want you to stop bombarding Antonia and my uncle with your incessant calls."

Cartwright helped himself to a rocker by the hearth, and stretched out his feet to its warmth. "Did you even think of answering one of those messages? Did you ever think it might be something important? I didn't drop everything to come here because of the scenery, delightful as it may be."

Kirk stood in stony silence.

"Oh come on, Jim," Cartwright cajoled. "We used to work together at Headquarters, remember? Loosen up."

"And I resigned," Kirk said tartly, "remember? It made front page news. I made damn sure of that."

Cartwright forced a congenial smile. "There's no denying it, you've got grit. That's one of the qualities that makes you so valuable to Starfleet. One of the reasons that Starfleet's ready to forgive and forget."

Kirk's eyes blazed. "Starfleet forgive _me?_ For protesting a blatant miscarriage of justice? You people knew Spock wasn't a killer."

Cartwright had not expected him to defend Spock. By all reports, Kirk's friendship with the Vulcan was over. Could it be that Kirk still harbored some lingering loyalty to his former first officer? He switched to a soothing, conciliatory tone. "Jim, the officers who presided over Captain Spock's court martial judged him according to the evidence. What else could they do?"

For a moment Kirk seemed deeply conflicted. Then he said, "Well, it's all over now and he's pensioned off, having a good old time with that family of his…"

Cartwright felt a tickling of amusement. Kirk's remark settled any question about his current relationship with Spock. Clearly Kirk hadn't a clue about what the Vulcan was doing these days, and that put Cartwright in a most advantageous position. Permitting himself a small, sympathetic smile, he said, "Oh. Then apparently you haven't heard…"

Kirk frowned. "Heard what?"

Cartwright's smile broadened, showing white even teeth against his dark skin. "Captain Spock's commission has been reactivated."

Kirk seemed too stunned to speak.

It was the perfect moment for Cartwright to lay the rest of his cards on the table. "Jim, there's been an incident in the Klingon Empire that has Starfleet taking inventory of its seasoned captains." He paused and some wicked instinct told him exactly what to say. "Your name…and Spock's…are among those being considered."

Kirk scarcely moved a muscle. "Considered? For what?"

"Command of the Enterprise."

oooo

After Cartwright left, Kirk stood before the fireplace staring blindly at the flames. It was several wrenching moments before his eyes rose to the painting over the mantel. He had long sensed something missing from it, and now he knew what it was. High up in the sky, above the pastel tinted clouds—the unseen mistress calling to him from space.

Powerful emotion welled up; an odd discomforting mix of joy and anger and unrestrained ambition. _So, Spock old friend. Is that why you got back into uniform? To take my ship? To take the Enterprise?_

 _Enterprise_. The name stirred him to the depths of his soul. It drew him with a force that he felt powerless to refuse. But what of Antonia? Would she understand? He did not want to lose her.

Rehearsing what he would say, he slowly climbed the stairs. He expected to find her at an easel, wiping her hands on some paint-stained rag. But the loft was dark, the curtains drawn, the skylights smothered in freshly fallen snow. In one corner a lone candle flickered. He found Antonia kneeling in simple faith before a crucifix on the wall, and his heart warmed at the sight. _What was he thinking? How could he leave a woman like this? But he_ _must_ _…_

"Antonia," he said softly.

She slipped rosary beads into her pocket and rose gracefully. They looked at one another, candle-shadows chasing over their faces.

Kirk steeled himself. "Antonia…I have to go away again. To Starfleet…just for a while."

"I know," she said.

Her calm acceptance took him by surprise. He had expected an argument, tears, pleading. Was it really going to be this easy?

Antonia put her arms around him. "Jim, I've already told you that I love you. I want us to be together always, but…" He waited, silently aching as she drew a slow breath. "But I knew all along that you'd be going. You _have_ to go back and mend some fences."

He drew away.

Searching his face, she said, "I don't know who it is. I don't know if it's a man or a woman. All I know is that it's eating you alive."

Kirk half-turned from her and the flickering candle that suddenly reminded him so much of a certain Vulcan.

"It's him, isn't it?" she said. "The one you kept from seeing you in the hospital. What was his name?"

"Spock." He fairly spat the word. "No, this isn't about him." He went over to a switch and triggered the lights on. He saw now that there _were_ tears, and tried to calm himself down. "Something's up," he told her. "They need a captain…for the Enterprise."

"Your ship."

"Yes. _My_ ship."

She sighed. "Alright then. I'll be here waiting."

Kirk crossed the room and took her into his arms. "And then you'll marry me," he said, "won't you?"

"We'll see," she replied. "We'll see…"

For now that would have to do. Frustrated, Kirk gave her one final, bittersweet kiss. Then he hurried downstairs, grabbed his belongings, and linked into Starfleet's transporter network.

oooOOooo


End file.
